| Ale Washed Wits |
| Summary: | The Flint Camp gets together to celebrate with ale, women and tales! |
| Date: | 1/18/289 |
| Related Logs: | Ironborn Invasion |
| Players: |
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| The Flint Campsight |
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| A large, rollicking camp fire in the Roost, mostly occupied by hale and hearty Flint men. |
| Wednesday, January 18th, 289 |
"What a beard of the general's cut and a horrid suit of the camp will do among foaming bottles and ale-washed wits, is wonderful to be thought on." — King Henry V, Act III Scene VI
The sun is beginning to set over Terrick's Roost, and most of the town, those who have survived and find the desire to go and eat, drink and be merry to celebrate victories and to forget their ills for the night, are out at the wedding and feast. It is past the vows, and into the merrymaking that Young Lord Flint returns to that area allocated to his men. A night out rather than in the keep just seems better to him, more logical. There's a bit of homesickness, though he'd never admit it, and the way to combat it is to be with his Northern stock, his men. One of his men at arms has kept a room, just in case the Young Lord did just that, and it is with thanks, and a good and proper handshake, that he decides to take it. Now, all that is left, is to sit at the fires and talk, and drink.. and share the freshly baked bread. And.. perhaps.. tell stories?
"I tell you," Anders is obviously in the middle of a tale, "there was no way the thing could have escaped. Not with the injuries it had. Don't you know the bastard took out Bryngham's dogs? And you know what he's like.." This brings out a raucous laugh among the men, for those who do know the Master of the Hunt and his affinity to his hounds..
Not only the men telling story, are settled around the fires, but so the women as well, or what few followed the Flint men south to war. One such seems to care more for the fire and less for the men, settled close enough to keep the fire's warmth, and far enough not to light her skirts afire. And she seemed content to remain so, sitting on the hard earth, bowls all around, sorting through the leaves and barries she's collected on her roamings. But Niamh has always an ear to stories, and she listens, even if she doesn't join in.
The Lady Flint has been doing her best to be near the other proper ladies of the Riverlands. Though not always as proper as she should be, she's doing what she can to learn. It's created a hint of homesickness in herself as well, not nearly so used to being courtly proper on a consistent basis. So, tonight, desperate for some taste of home — or her husband's home, she's settled near to him at the fireside. Mostly quiet, letting him entertain his men and keep morale up with tht hearty laughter and wide smiles. It draws a tired, though earnest smile to her pale features as well. Corrie's currently settled on the ground, part way between her husband and Niamh, but slowly she's creeping her way nearer to her husband. Within another story, her head might be against his knee.
Bread is broken, the loaves are passed around, and each either takes some of the warm bread or passes it on, or both. The laughter rises from the fire, with some random amused exclamations, Took out his lover, I betcha.. is one, Shouldn't be too surprised it'll turn.. is another before Anders talks over them all, a hunk of bread in his hands. "Blood all over the snow.. was like he decided that if he was going to go, he'd surely take one or two with him." He, too, laughs, and takes a bite, chewing slowly as another man chimes in, checking on the ladies— not necessarily a 'proper' place for them, but there isn't a chance he'd chase them away. It's a moment of home.
"T'weren't nothin', my Lord. Once, and I swear that it's true, there was an elk.. and it had the biggest rack.." Here, the man is interrupted, "You're talkin' about your wife!" which brings the men into laughter once again while the man who had started speaking also laughs, but launches a piece of bread at his interruptor. "As I was sayin'.."
Ladies there are, but only one or two seem of the proper sort. Certainly, Niamh is not. Bare of foot, covered in dirt and the green of shrubs and bushes waded through, hands scratched and pricked with thorns and nettles, but content to her work, not looking up, but seeming to know enough to dodge to the side to avoid the piece of bread being tossed past her. One of the bowls lies finished, the other nearly so, eyes rising to find her lady, to make certain she's well.
The elk commentary, or more so the wife commentary, draws a good smirk from Cordelya's lips, skeptically looking in the man's direction. "I have seen his wife's rack, and while large, it is no where near so …Upstanding as an elk's!" The lady of the house cuts in, mischief glimmering in her green eyes as she finally does bring herself to lean against her husband's calves and knees. She reaches one hand back, stealing at his cup of ale and bringing it to her lips to sip before she gives it back to him. Corrie certainly seems mostly well enough, even if she's not quite the proper lady, sitting on the ground as such. She gives a look to Niamh, "Nia… stop working and drink… this is a night to relax." She coaxes gently. She also then reaches into the hidden pocket in her own skirts, having handed back the ale to her husband, she withdraws her small flask there and begins to uncap the top.
With the Lady Flint's addition, laughter rises again, and there are a couple of cups that are raised to the lady's proclamation. Anders, too, laughs, but he is unfortunate enough to be taking a swallow of ale, and it flies at the statement, ending in a coughing fit. His face goes red, but it's not of any issue.. it's simply a matter of cleaning his lungs.. and he allows his wife to steal the cup.
"Oh, she's a right one.." one man offers up, lifting his cup. "Health, my Lady!"
"She's got you to rights," is another.. and there are echoes.
"As I was sayin'," the man attempts to begin again, but now? Elk antlers and the unfortunate man's wife are now forever entwined. After a moment of simply not regaining the attentions, he gives up.
Anders slides in, then, taking over. "I know that elk, but not your wife, Georg.. and I'm suddenly extremely.." he looks down at Corrie for a moment before adding, ".. glad." Or not. Still, the statement does bring laughs, and the husband now chimes in, "Oh, my Lord.. she'd be your ever willing servant..". That gets hoots of approval, and one man that sits on the other side of Anders nudges the Young Lord.
"I think I should not drink this evening, Reed's daughter. I should not like to embarrass the men, and show them up." There's a twinkle of merriment, in Niamh's eyes, as she comes to her feet, dusting down her skirts, before she carries one of the bowls of berries away, returning with one of the skins of new ale that have been brewing in the Flint encampment. She's more than content to refill those as have need. And swat away errant hands at need.
As the men raise a glass to her health, Corrie grins wider and raises her flask in turn. It's a fairly common sight with her and hasn't gotten -too- much undue attention, considering she's never been openly drunk in their presence ever. Hell, she actually seems rather capable of keeping her up with her husband and his men quite well, despite being a slip of the thing, "And to your healths as well, gentlemen. I think you have more need to pray to the gods than I, these days. Barely a week to rest then off to war again. I hope all your wifes keep racks big enough to call you home over the Ironborn's madness!" She winks at them, and then drinks down deep from the flask in her hand. Her free palm reaches back to rub against the edge of her husband's legs. "Slow, dear. I still have need of you before the night is over." Oh yes, there is heat in those words.
Then it's Niamh who speaks, and Corrie's eyes just widen. She full on grins and nods to a few of the other men. "Get the Mistress an ale, Jamys! She thinks she can out drink you. See if you can prove her wrong? The herbs will keep, Niamh. This is a night to celebrate."
It does wonders for morale, certainly. To know the Young Lord is as homesick for the North as they are, and is willing to share the evening with them? Willing? No. He seems to need it as much as his men. For the first time since this began, Anders seems at ease. Relaxed. He laughs easily and takes sport with his men. For a brief moment in time, they could simply be on a hunting expedition up North, only larger..
Nia's words, of course, presents a challenge, and as she begins refilling those cups, there are a couple of Aw.. show us up, mistress.. rather lewdly, and there are a couple hands to be swatted. Nothing dangerous, certainly— all in good fun.
There is a moment of silence in mention of war, but as soon as mention of wives.. and their racks are mentioned, there comes a hoot.. and a rising cheer from the fire from all sides. "And the tastiest morsels to be picked over upon our return," comes a response.. which elicits more hoots.
Anders sits and and smiles, relaxed, before looking down at his bride, hearing the heat in her words. Apparently others do, and laughter from the men in the immediate area rises, though the words are lost across the bonfire. "Oh, my Lord.. looks like an early night for you.. and if you please, leave us the lovely Niamh.. to show us up.. until we all beg for her mercy." The one spoken to, Jamys, rises from his spot and he goes for the ale for the Mistress.. a broad grin plastered on his face. Is he chosen as the lucky one tonight? Ooooh, yes…
"A night to celebrate," Anders repeats. "We have food, rest, and a clear sky over our head.. and surrounded by our kin. Celebrate, indeed!" He lowers his voice, the ale taken before he speaks, "Oh? And you.. that ale flows freely, my bride.. It matters not, however, what state you're in.."
Niamh sets aside the ale, flicking her skirts in Jamys' direction, as the man approaches with his ale. seeming not at all ill at ease amongst the rough speech of the men, harmless or no. Like as not, she's heard both worse and better in the bogs of home. Men are men, whether on dry land or no. "As you like then, but if your men should be insensible with drink in the morning, and only this maid remains to do for all, you shall not think poorly of me." A hand held out, awaiting the first mug of ale.
Another good pull is taken from her flask, enough to keep Cordelya relaxed and calm even in so much loud company. She slips the little metal container back away in that hidden pocket amid her heavy skirts and reaches forward to take her own mug instead, to soon be filled with ale so she might continue with the celebrations and not steal her husband's mug all the while. She's flushing, just a touch, but it doesn't seem in embarrassment at the words. More likely in a touch of eagerness for tonight as well as the warmth of the alochol through her veins. "They do not know what they've gotten into, Niamh. I expect to hear tales of YOUR triumphant victory tonight!" She winks at her maid.
Then Corrie's head turns gently and she presses a warm, tender kiss against her husband's knee cap. she grinks up to him, "Mm… It matters not what state? I think you like it when I have my wits about me quite keenly, though… I better remember things from all those books."
Jamys laughs at the gesture, and with the ale, begins a sloppy pour into Nia's cup, spilling over the sides. "You're shaking, boy.." Anders calls out, laughter in his tones. "You can't be afraid of her.. they know when you're afraid.." His words bring laughter out from the men again, and there comes shouting, "She'll make a man outta you.. unless she makes you a cryin' babe in arms.." and another calls, "That's fine as long as he gets her breast!" The rising laughter, oddly enough, in Nia's favour, sounds easy, as if there isn't a care for what comes in the morning. After all, the night is still young.
Anders pulls his eyes from the sight of the fumbling boy back to his bride as he feels the press of lips against him. It's a fond smile that is offered, quirking up at her words. "If I'm in a state, does it matter?" He doesn't get drunk often, truth be told.. and this could very well be one of the first times, other than his wedding day, that ale runs so freely in his cup. "Though, my lady, with you, your wits are just as enticing as… your.." He pauses, grins lopsidedly, and continues, ".. wits."
Niamh is a kind and goodly soul, everyone will attest to it, and she reaches out to straighten the boy's hand, holding it steady, so that more ale goes in her mug than out of it. Never let it be said that she wins a contest by not playing with even odds. "Do not frighten the boy. He will go home and tell stories of the terrible women of the bogs." Again, that flash of a smile, before she lifts her mug, saluting the man, before she starts to drink. Like a trooper. No timid woman is the Young Lady Flint's maid.
A happy whistle comes from Corrie's lips in Jamys and Niamh's direction, amusement wide in her green eyes. She laughs huskily. "He's right. Us Crannogwomen can smell fear, and much more! No lying around the girls from the bogs. It'll only cause you trouble. I'm certain Nia can teach you a lesson or ten, Jamys. Just drink up so you don't shake her silly trembling when you try to steal a kiss later on!" Corrie laughs with some of the men as she says that, enjoying the tease on poor Jamys, though her eyes now turn a hint heavier in Niamh's direction. She's just being certain the woman isn't actually bothered by any of this.
Then there is her husband speaking towards her, Corrie shifting her body enough so her side leans against his legs, not her back, and she can more easily look up to him. She gives him wide, attempting (and failing) to be innocent eyes. "…My wits… darling? I think you have repeated yourself. Though I am very glad to know you like a lady with a pert… Mind." She grins a bit more, free hand rubbing at the back of his calf. "And do not be in -tooo- much of a state, as all. Or I will not be able to get your… Attention." And she's not saying any of this quietly either.
The touch of Nia's hand to his in order to aid pouring brings a grin from Jamys, and he looks briefly to the side at the men who are starting a low whoop, ready to raise it with the first glass of ale raised by the Lady's maid. "Jamys.. make sure you pour your own.. if y'can't do it, you're of no use to the maid anywhere else!" That is greeted by laughter, the Northmen obviously enjoying their party, perhaps as much as those of the Roost elsewhere. The young man laughs, albeit a little nervously as he watches Nia begin to drain her cup.. and rather than get distracted by that displayed neck, as much as he'd like to.. he fills his cup. All's fair, yes?
Anders' lady wife moves closer, and some of the men on his other side raise their brows.. not in shock, or surprise.. but maybe perhaps a little surprise that their Lord is remaining where he is, rather than bringing his Lady behind closed doors. After all.. and with her words, them men on their side of the bonfire raise their voices in laughter. "Oh, Young Lady, you've got his attention.." The voices do stop at that, however, as Anders begins. "I like a good.. mind. One that I can give .. proper lessons and have it remaining open for more ideas to be.. given." Again, his men utter a low.. ooooooo.. at their Lordship's words to his new bride.
Niamh wastes no time in finishing off her mug, looking none the worse for wear in the aftermath. But Corrie, better than most would know her maid to have an exceptional constitution. And the light ale being brewed is not so much for inducing drunkenness, though it can in sufficient quantity, but for only easing mood and lightening spirits. Such is the ale brewed in times of war. "Can you do more than one then?" And if she's trying to distract the men from making sort of her lady and her lord husband, well, that's part of her duties, surely.
Cordelya keeps Niamh in the corner of her vision, but since her maid seems quite comfortable with her ale, and with teasing Jamys even more so, Corrie doesn't intervene. As long as the woman is as happy and relaxed as she is, there are no worries. So, insteadn, she turns her warm green gaze up to her husband, blushing a bit more at the whistles that are all around them. She doesn't pull him away yet either! "Oh, darling… YOu are the one giving proper lessons, are you? Who is the one who came with all those books from Dorne to this marriage. If you've been holding back in things you could be teaching me, I will be -sorely- disappointed!" She squeezes his leg before knocking back the rest of her ale with a good gulp. A quiet, almost lady like belch (but still a belch!) follows. "Mm… Sorry! Anyway. I am eager for your lessons, husband. You know I am ever at your service… an innocent young lass unaware of the world until I came to your arms."
With the emptying of the mug, it is Jamys' turn, and he takes a deep breath— he's already been at his cups since the stories started around the fire, but nothing in earnest, certainly. He raises his glass in salute first to his Lord and his Lady, then to the gathered, and then to Nia. It is on! He brings his cup up and as it's emptied, his head rolls back further until his cup is emptied. As he brings his head forward, a cheer rolls from the older men, and it's one to one. Ish. "Aye, I can.." and it's on? He raises the ale again, and makes to fill her cup, the trembling a little more under control as the liquid is poured.
Anders isn't too worried about the maid and the lad. He's a good lad, and he's pretty sure Niamh can take care of herself. If she wanted to put a stop to it, all she would have to do is to say such. No one here is a child, and should things progress, it's pretty obvious as to where it just may lead.. and there's no harm in that either. As far as Anders is concerned, anyway. Corrie may have different feelings on the matter. But then again…?
The blushing that comes to Corrie's cheeks brings a smile more fully onto Anders' face. That doesn't happen very often, particularly in such talk. The mention of the books brings another low 'ooooooo' from the men near; they'd heard rumours, but is it actually true? The groom laughs, "Have you read all the great Northern books yet, lady? Dorne doesn't have to worry about the frost, and the snow.. and the frigid winter months.." How to keep warm in a Northern winter, 101? Now, he could be bluffing, as Corrie's read a good deal of books when she was a ward with the Starks, or.. perhaps she missed those? He chuckles at the belch.. so very ladylike.. (uh huh) and leans forward, "An innocent a lass as ever I laid… eyes upon."
It's hard for one untutored to manage a ladylike disdain, but every woman learns while still in swaddling clothes, how to look down her nose at a man, particularly one quite a number of years younger than she. And at twenty and four, there are many a younger man in the Flint encampment to Niamh. But she allows the man his drink, even holds out her hand for a refill. "Shall we go another round then?" And so it seems, and she raises her mug…
Tomorrow morning, Corrie will congratulation Niamh in putting the man in his place, no doubt earning some respect among all the boys and men. It creates a safer, happier family over all! But for now, Corrie has all eyes for her husband. She stares at him with an actual skeptical look, sitting a bit straighter with a little laugh. "…What? You think the lessons a nothern winter teaches has ANYTHING compared to the pleasure houses of Dorne? I didn't know the north was -renown- for it's…. Sensual activities! And you've been holding back on me?! Two months wed. Hah." Corrie then folds her arms across her chest and mock huffs, looking away. All a lovely game.
With cup at the ready, Jamys fills Nia's, and then immediately fills his own before nerve is lost. He grins broadly, absolutely refusing to consider defeat at the moment. "We shall, unless, mistress, you'd like to raise your hands and say 'all's done', and declare me the victor this evening." As if that'll do it? There's whispers of "Go, boy!" and "Don't let up now, she'll be yers by fire's end..".. but for the time being now, the bread is back to being passed around, and most are talking amongst themselves.. until, of course, either that next round is taken, or the victor is declared.
Anders laughs at Corries' huff, his head lowering to whisper in her ear, "Keeping warm by rubbing bodies against each other?" he begins, "Rolling about in furs and skins, feeling the soft hair upon your back as you are caressed upon the other side? No Dornish woman ever felt the skins of rabbit upon bare flesh, the heat mingling with the cool of the room.. making you sweat.." Exactly how he knows about these things? He raises his head, a shrug coming lightly to his shoulders, "If you don't believe me.. and we are inferior to all that you've.. read.."
"A slip of a boy, give me cause to raise the flag of defeat?" A stomp of her foot, as Niamh reaches out to refill her own mug, right to the top, still looking none the worse for wear, though, to be fair, she didn't have the head start that Jamys did. "But you've not a hope of a spot by my fire unless you can keep your legs." She gives a moment's pause, giving the man a once over…a thorough one, "And I think that much is in question."
Since Corrie has turned her back to Anders' legs, she's watching Niamh and Jamys, especially as the men are cheering them on. She laughs warmly herself, whistling at them all, "Oh, Niamh! Those poor boys. Do be gentle with his head when you put him to bed, yes? He needs to March in a few days!" Which head? Which -bed-, for that matter? It's certainly not clear by Corrie's words, her eyes glimmering ever more to see them all relaxing so deeply.
Then Cordelya's husband's words echo just a bit more in her head. He is managing to draw that heat back to her cheeks, her breath shallowing out a touch once more. Mm… "…That does sound lovely, dear… And here you have been holding back. I ought to beat you for it." She calls back to him, but she doesn't yet turn around. "But words are worth no more than the paper on which they might be writ. It is actions that will prove me wrong. But… if you are scared to teach…" She shrugs and melodramatically sighs, head lulling back against his knees.
Jamys brings himself up to height, so very pleased with himself. Like the others, he's marched this distance, and the several hundred miles has leaned him out, put more muscles on him than his craft had managed in the few scant years out of apprenticeship. Being looked over brings low hoots from his comrades, encouragement, certainly. "I intend to be the one to light that fire, mistress.. and then take my spot by it." He takes his cup, and even without Nia swallowing her drink, he again, makes the salutes and drains the cup. He's a bit wobbly, thanks to the drink had before, but his feet remain on the ground, and he doesn't fall.. and with a victorious expression on his face, he raises his glass and sets it upside down to prove that it's empty.
Anders, for his part, laughs softly as he sees the pinkening of Corrie's cheeks once again. "It's not yet winter, my bride.." Though the petulance that is set into her tones makes him laugh once again, and rising to his feet, he reaches to take his wife up and into his arms.. holes in his chest or none. He's feeling fine at the moment, and this is something he wishes to do.. and therefore.. "Come, then, wife.. you place your trust in books.. and now it's time for action. I don't believe Dornish winters come near Northern ones.. but for the moment, we aren't in winter.. so I will allow you your.. liberties." If not stopped, well.. he's headed back to the room given him by his man at arms.. to the hoots and cheers of the men left behind at the fire— though whether it's for young Jamys and Niamh, or because they know exactly what will be occuring behind closed doors with their Young Lord and his Lady…
